A Thing Called Transference
by dracos-stapler
Summary: Sigmund Freud—a name cropping up too often in Draco's life, and a name associated with Muggles. He hates that. But when he begins to have problems at work and confusion with love, Draco ends up in therapy, where he progresses quickly through incarnations of Freud's levels of the human mind: the id, superego, and ego.
1. Chapter 1: Id

**Id**  
**"das Es"**

"We all approach the id with analogies: we call it a chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations...It is filled with energy reaching it from the instincts, but it has no organisation, produces no collective will, but only a striving to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual needs to subject to the observance of the pleasure principle" (Freud, New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis [1933]).

hr /  
Draco Malfoy was having a very bad day.

"Bloody—Muggle contraption!" he bellowed, throwing the stapler against the bare wall of his cubicle. "Granger," he demanded angrily, "Why must you force us to use these blasted stip—sipstap—siplurers?"

Hermione scoffed. "It's called a stapler, Malfoy," she said, amused, and then turned and walked away.

"OH, BECAUSE IT'D BE JUST SO INCONVENIENT TO USE A SIMPLE STICKING CHARM!" he roared at her retreating back, sticking his head up over the edge of his cubicle.

She ignored him.

"First you stick us in cages, then you try to force us to build up some stinking tolerance for the mysterious and bloody nonsensical ways of the Muggles by making us use their painful contraptions, then you ignore us and drown us in paperwork..." Grumbling, he began rolling up small balls of paperwork and charming them to zoom violently across the office space, one of which poked Ernie MacMillan in the eye.

"Ouch," Ernie mumbled, rubbing his eye sorely. Take that, pig, Draco thought, chuckling darkly. Hermione suddenly stormed into his cubicle. "Draco Malfoy!"

"Sheesh, woman, can't a man get any privacy around here?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and chewing nonchalantly on the end of his pen. Which I hate, he thought darkly. Muggle riffraff.

"Don't you think that Ernie might be wondering the same thing? What's going on with you?" She narrowed her eyes.

"I'm having a bad day, for your information."

"Well, you don't have to throw things."

"Bloody hell! Don't be so bossy."

"For your information, Draco Malfoy, I'm not having a good day either. Ronald and I just broke off our engagement. Happy now?"

Draco considered for a moment, tilting his head to the side. "Yes," he said, and Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation, turning away. "And, hey—" he said, and she looked back over her shoulder. "I don't suppose that your use of his full name has anything to do with the breakup—"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. Draco laughed at her annoyance, rather pleased with himself. Hermione stalked off.

"If I might say so, sir, you seem to have been having quite a few bad days as of late," Blaise Zabini said, casually leaning over the cubicle barrier.

"Mind your own business, you tosser," Draco quipped. Blaise grinned and folded his arms over the edge of the wall.

"Seems to me as if you, kind sir, could benefit from the services of a therapist. To reign in your sass, you know." He retreated back to his own cubicle. Where he belongs, Draco thought, frowning severely.

But, wait...maybe Blaise is right. Maybe I could "benefit from the services of a therapist."

Draco shook his head, making a face.

Nonsense, you git. Shut up and get back to work.

"Sass! Hah, hah." He shook his head again, amused at Blaise's delusion.

He leaned over and picked up the—strapper—off the floor. Bloody useless thing, he thought broodingly as he twisted it in his fingers.

But if I were...to visit a therapist...I'd have to see a Muggle one. Wizarding therapists would know too much about me—my past. I mean, practically everyone in the Magical world of Britain knows who Draco Malfoy is—as they should—but yes, Muggle it is.

However, Draco thought, sneering and chuckling to himself, I quite doubt that a Muggle would be able to uncover the deep and buried root of my problems. Like they're problems! Hah, hah! I don't have problems, I'm Draco Malfoy.

But, for the record...perhaps—and I mean, just maybe—I'm a little unhappy.

A car splashed through a puddle of dirty water as Draco crossed the street, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets. Filth sprayed over his beige designer coat.

"Bloody fool! In your stupid Muggle locomotor, watch where you're going, peasant! This is Burberry!" he screamed, pointing at his coat, after the disappearing vehicle, which trundled along as though nothing was wrong. As it clearly is.

He was standing in the middle of the street.  
Now or never, mate, he thought sullenly. Did I just call myself 'mate'? ...I need more friends.

He walked quickly to the dirty sidewalk, looking up at the sign over the large glass doors that stood facing him. "Das Freud," he read, frowning. What the hell does that mean? he asked himself. Stupid Muggles. Shaking his head, he sucked in his breath and pulled open the door, stepping into the warm waiting room.

"May I help you, sir?" An elderly woman in square spectacles sitting at a desk asked him sweetly. He looked at her uncertainly, and suspiciously took in his surroundings, making sure that they were quite alone.

"Who are you sassing?" he snapped after a moment. The woman looked taken-aback, and Draco cleared his throat, straightening his tie. He looked around again, and then leaned in close over the counter. "Sorry, just nervous. You see, I've been having problems with my temper lately, and I'm not sure—"

"Oh, you'd be here to see Dr. Fielgud. Please wait in that seat over there in the corner and he'll be with you shortly."

"Dr. Feel-Good? In the corner? Is this your crackpot idea of a Muggle joke?" Draco demanded angrily.

"I'm sorry, sir, if you'd take a seat."

Draco hesitated a moment, standing threateningly with his feet splayed apart, just to make sure this lady understood he was clearly in charge of this stupid situation, before stalking to the corner, muttering under his breath. Stupid Muggles and their names...

"Hello, sir, if you'd step right this way," said a tall, nondescript man of a smug nature, gesturing in the general area behind him. Draco followed him down the hall, until they reached the third door on the left.

"If you could kindly sit tight for a moment. You're a little early, so if you don't mind, I need to go feed my fish, visit the loo and eat some curry."

Draco frowned at the doctor. "Well, the idea of therapy is to be honest, so I'm just beginning with the right foot forward," the doctor said, and Draco scoffed deeply before stepping into the room. It was lined with couches and in one corner, a peculiar, long bench sat. It seemed to beckon him. He looked over his shoulder before walking over to it and sitting down.

"How do I 'sit tight'?" he hissed angrily. He sat, frowning, tensing his muscles.

His anxiety swelled at the prospect of spilling his secrets to a stranger—to a Muggle, on top of that. His breathing suddenly became rapid.

He heard a loud crack and a crash as from the wall opposite him, behind a large mahogany desk, a frame fell and shattered on the ground. He jumped slightly and then got up to fix it, pulling out his wand.

Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate

Draco read from the piece of paper that had been housed in the frame. "Sigmund Freud."

He frowned, grimacing. "What rubbish," he spat before placing it back in the frame and muttering, "reparo." He hung it back up in its place on the wall, reading it again. Something deep within him seemed to understand it.

He didn't like that feeling.

He hated that feeling.

"Who's this Frood guy—why does he keep appearing?"

"Fr-oi-d," the doctor said, walking in and closing the door behind him. Draco sniffed at the air. Curry.

"Freud is an extremely famous and acclaimed psychoanalytic psychologist." He raised his eyes at Draco.

What, you can't scare me with all your big words, peasant.

"That thing that you're sitting on, in fact, is called a Freudian couch, developed by Freud himself to aid his patients in a treatment he called 'free association.' That's what you'll be doing today with me, after you fill out some basic forms, of course." The doctor

proffered a clipboard piled high with forms. Draco took it, looking at the papers petulantly. He handed it back.

"I don't do paperwork." I do enough of that at the Ministry, peasant.  
"Alright, then," the doctor said, snatching it up off his desk and placing it aside. "Now, lay

down."

"Excuse me?"

"Lay down. On the couch."

Draco glared before obeying.

"Now, tell me what's been bothering you lately," the doctor said in that same smug tone, tapping his pen against his notepad.

"You. I don't like you," Draco said honestly.  
The doctor laughed, and asked him to try again.

Draco pursed his lips angrily, and then tried to relax. "Well, I've been really irritable lately," Draco said, frowning at the doctor's pen, which was still tapping. "Which has been a problem at the Depart—I mean, office."

"Ah, Draco, Draco, Draco," the doctor said, smiling patronizingly. Draco wanted to punch him. "Now, in order for this therapy to be effective—that is, to work—you're simply going to have to tell me everything you think of. That's just how this therapy works."

"I know what effective means," Draco snapped viciously. "Now stop that incessant pen tapping!"

Raising his brow, the doctor set aside his pen delicately.  
"There's some honesty," he said. "Now, tell me why you think you feel irritable."

"Isn't that your job?" Draco asked, but at a glare from the doctor, he settled back down, folding his hands over his stomach, and tried to oblige. "Well, here's a list for you.

My best friend's a tosser.

My boss is a wench. Stupid Mudblood.

My parents are dead. And left me with this stupid name.

Harry freaking Potter is still around.

And I'm talking to this haughty, arrogant git who keeps asking me questions to which I

don't have the answers."

"Okay," the doctor said, looking amused. "First of all, what's a Mudblood? Who's Harry Potter? And what's wrong with your name?"

"Well—" Draco paused, sitting up. "Obviously, this isn't going to work for me. So bye." He got up, smirked, and walked out the door. Slamming it for good measure.

"I gave you that paperwork three days ago!"  
"Well, it's not on my desk, so I don't know where it is. Maybe you lost it on your way

over here...you know, in your hair."

"That was unnecessary and rude." And you have the mind of a child, Hermione thought.

"You're unnecessary and rude."

Hermione groaned, clapping her forehead with her palm and walked away, shaking her head.

"Well that worked quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself." Blaise popped his head up from the next cubicle over. "Finally got her to leave."

Draco stuck his head out of his cubicle, checking to see that all of the others were doing their work. Reasonably confident that no one was listening, he whispered to Blaise, "I went to therapy."

"How did that work out for you?"  
Draco hesitated. "I left."  
"Why?"  
"The man didn't know who Harry Potter was!" he hissed. "I thought you hated Potter."

"I do, you dolt," Draco spat vehemently.

"So you went to a Muggle therapist...Therein lies your problem, friend. What's wrong with a good old Wizarding therapist?"

"They know who I am...'Therein?' Does anyone say that?" Draco said disbelievingly, then shook his head. "Ugh—I mean, Wizarding therapists think they've got me pinned. Think they know who I am." He paused. "Bastards."

"I believe that you should give it a chance," Blaise said, appraising Draco from the corner of his eye. "I was kidding at first, but now I do believe that you could actually benefit from this."

Draco looked at his friend darkly. "Thanks."  
"That doesn't sound like paperwork, boys," Hermione bellowed from her cubicle. Frowning, Draco bent his head to his desk and began to sort the case files.

Draco couldn't believe his eyes. Or his luck.

"Longbottom?" he said incredulously, taking in the young man seated behind the counter of the front desk in the lobby. "You're a bloody receptionist?" He began laughing, closely bordering hysterics as he compared the image of Longbottom to the last receptionist he'd seen in Neville's place.

"Nice to see you, too, Malfoy," Neville said pleasantly, looking on at the laughing man in front of him. He raised his brows, nodding to himself. He had always figured this one would end up in the loony bin. "Ms. Lovegood will see you shortly."

"Lovegood?" Draco asked, his laughter ceasing abruptly. A tear ran down one cheek. He couldn't believe his stupid luck. "Loony Lovegood is a therapist?" he cried, raising his arms. Neville looked alarmed. Seemed to me like she could have used a good bit of therapy herself, Draco thought. He wondered at the irony.

"Yes," Neville said, leaning back, seeming to want to put as much distance as possible between himself and Draco. "Luna Lovegood has become one of the most acclaimed Wizarding therapists in all of Britain."

"Well, I'll be," Draco said, whistling softly. "I'll just wait over here, then, in the corner." "You don't need to sit in the corner, Malfoy. There are plenty of other seats."  
"I'll have my corner, thanks," Draco snapped.

"Oh, Draco! How lovely to see you! Would you step this way, please?" Lovegood said, appearing just before Draco could escape to his corner. Yes, she was as spacey as he had remembered. And feared. Oh, boy, he thought, following her down the hallway to the third door on the left.

What the hell is going on with this third floor on the left business?

"Well, Draco," Lovegood said, "What do you—"

"Look, Loony—I mean, Lovegood—before we start this, I just want to lay down some ground rules. You don't speak of this information to anybody. And I mean, anybody. Second of all, don't you think that I hate all Mu—Muggleborns—just because my father was a Death Eater." Even though I do hate Granger, if I do say so myself. "Lastly—and don't you forget it—I don't want to hear anything about any damned Nargles while I'm here. Don't waste my precious gold."

"Well...I guess we don't need to go over the confidentiality policy," Luna said genially, smiling. "And as for Nargles...well, never mind."

Draco smiled, satisfied that she seemed to be following his rules.

"And as for your past," Luna said, "I'm not here to judge you—just to help."

"Like I need help."

"Er—that's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Oh, um, yeah." Draco frowned. "Hey," he said, a sudden thought occurring to him, "Do you know who Freud is?"

"Freud...I may have heard his name once or twice but I believe that I thought his work and theories to be distinctly rubbish." She shook her head, glancing up at him.

"But you have a Freudian couch!" Draco whined, pointing at it.

"Very good, Draco...very good!"

"Don't patronize me," he returned, furrowing his brow. He sat down on the couch, even though he hated it. I hate you, he thought, looking down at it.

"You need to—"  
"I know, I know—lie down," he interrupted hotly.

"I was going to say 'make yourself comfortable,'" Luna said, seemingly unfazed. Draco regarded her from one eye. I'm starting to like Lovegood a little more now, Draco thought to himself. She's not as bad as I thought.

"So...why did you decide to come and see me today?"

"Well, first of all, let's get this straight—I wasn't aware that it would be you I'd be seeing. But the reason I'm here is that I'm having a...little...bit of trouble with my temper, focus, and overall quality of life lately."

"That last bit sounds rehearsed," Luna said lightly, and Draco snapped back, "So what?"

She said nothing, only made a small note on her roll of parchment.

She looked up after a moment, clearing her throat. "I'm not the kind of therapist to ask you 'how does this make you feel?' and 'why do you think that is?' All I'm going to ask you to do is to close your eyes and tell me everything—every little detail—that comes instantly and easily to mind. We call this exercise 'free association.'"

"Okay," Draco said, deciding to lie down after all. He closed his eyes, peeking suspiciously at Lovegood, who was simply sitting at her desk quietly. "What?" Draco asked, seeing her staring at him.

"I'm just waiting for you to begin. Go on. Talk."

"Fine, fine..." he muttered, resenting not having control over the situation. He closed his eyes again, settling down, folding his hands over his stomach comfortably.

"So Blaise, Blaise Zabini, from Hogwarts—you know him— was the one to tell me to come see a therapist. He was joking at first but then I realized that I probably do need to see one. I haven't been in the greatest mood recently. Blaise...he's kind of a tosser. I mean, he means well, but he's an arse all the same. He talks like he's the bloody pope or something, all 'holier-than-thou.' Anyway, we work at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And Granger is our boss. She's a bit of a...er...well, bitch. I mean, actually she's kind of nice. But still, she's annoying. She always shrieks for no reason. Well, maybe not shrieks but still her voice is bloody shrill. The other day, she yelled at me for levitating paper balls. Paper balls! I mean, it's not my fault MacMillan got in the way of one and opened his eye for it to punch. It's not my fault I got tired of all my paperwork. It's definitely not worth the pay, not that I need the pay. I've got a whole fortune from my father."

"So anyway, because of all that paperwork I decided to make it into little levitating balls. It's not like I was actually going to finish all that work. It's bloody boring, and all those sodding cases. I don't even know why I work there, sometimes. I don't know why I don't just leave. Maybe I just want to stick to something for once."

"I'm always angry. I miss my parents. I mean, not really—but kind of. One Christmas I really wanted a model broom, but they got me a damned peacock. I mean what the hell would a child want to do with a peacock? A peacock, for Merlin's sake. But my mother was quite nice. Besides from being a Death Eater and all. And my father...well...you know him—Lucius Malfoy. What more can I say? He always wanted me to be better than Potter. Damn him—stupid scarhead. Potty. Ugh. Oh, and his sidekick Weasel! I'm

quite damn pleased that he and Granger broke it off. They would have had a million little ginger-haired Weasels and Weaslettes running around. And—"

"I'm sorry, Draco, but that's all the time we have today," Luna interrupted kindly. "What, already?" Draco said, a little startled, opening his eyes.

"You only scheduled a fifteen minute appointment, and I have another patient to see. But just one more thing before you leave," said Luna, "I think that instead of getting angry, and acting on that anger, I would self-soothe with something other than allowing your temper to fire up. Like doing something you enjoy: reading, painting, running."

"Er—okay, I guess I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Lovegood," Draco said begrudgingly.

"Don't forget to make your next appointment with Neville out front!" Luna called as he walked out the door.

"When can I put you down for next?" Neville asked with a smile as Draco approached the counter.

"Thursday is good, and make it a half-hour. Say—where's the closest Honeydukes?" Draco asked. I like eating. I wonder if I could self-soothe with chocolate frogs...

"The only one I know of is in Hogsmeade," Neville replied apologetically, shrugging.

"Dammit," Draco spewed, then caught look of Neville's shocked expression. "I mean—er —thank you, Longbottom."

"CHOCOLATE FROGS!"

"Excuse me?" the small till lady asked, looking with wide eyes up at the tall, pale, crazed-looking young man who had just burst into the store, snow swirling around his cloak as he stood in the doorway.

"I need some chocolate frogs. As many as you have." "Well, I'm not sure I can sell them all—"

"Listen, lady, do you know who I am?" Draco demanded, shaking his fist at her. "No? I'm Dra-co Mal-foy." He raised his brows impressively.

"Er...sorry?"

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Draco Malfoy. Really, you don't—? Ugh. Fine. Anyways, I have pockets full of gold. Just give them to me."

The woman frowned. Then sighed, throwing up her hands feebly and shaking her head. "Alright, alright, I'll just be down in the cellar a moment."

Draco smiled awkwardly, trying to look grateful. As soon as the lady descended into the storage room, his face wiped clean. "Good choice, peasant," he muttered under his breath, and he waited, impatient, thumping his fingers on the glass counter.

He was suddenly overcome with an incredible desire to eat sweets. As many as he could. He swished around dramatically, looking at the shelves stocked high with candies. He grabbed a basket from the pile near the door and began to raid the shelves, grabbing whatever he could hold in two hands.

When the woman came back with boxes piled high in her arms, he nearly tripped running to the counter, his basket bursting with all kinds of sweets. She set the boxes down on the counter and began to ring up the bill, sighing loudly and shaking her head as she took stock of package after package. She looked up at Draco, who was leaning on the counter excitedly.

"What?" he challenged, thrusting out his chin intimidatingly. "I have a problem." She nodded and handed him the receipt.

"Fifty galleons," he whispered, shaking his head. He hesitated, and then shrugged. "Ah, what the hell," he said, handing over the gold.

He exited the shop and looked down at his loot. "Well, there's an investment I hopefully won't regret."

"Guess what?" Draco said excitedly as he walked into the third room on the left, hanging up his coat on one of the hangers.

"What, Draco?"  
"I followed your advice. I self-soothed by doing something I really love." "Good!" Luna looked pleased. "What is that?"  
"Eating!" Draco replied happily, sitting on the couch.

Luna inhaled sharply. "Draco—that's not exactly the idea I...had in...mind..." she trailed off. Draco's eyes widened. She held out her hands, shaking her head. "You know what, never mind."

Draco relaxed. "So, what's on the agenda for today? Are you going to tell me what's wrong with me?" he asked, surprisingly good-natured.

"You tell me, Draco. What would you like to talk about?" Luna asked, taking off her pink horn-rimmed glasses.

She looks quite good without those ghastly spectacles.  
"Where did I leave off last time? Before a certain someone interrupted me?" He

chuckled.

Taking a look at her notes, Luna replied, "You were talking about Hermione and Ron and their red-headed children."

Draco was instantly annoyed. "Right! Those little brats running around. If Granger can't stand me—me, Draco Malfoy—there's no way she would be able to stand little recreations of Weasel." Draco paused, breathing heavily. He considered for a moment. "She does put up with a lot. I mean, I guess I'm not easy to be around, with my moods and what not."

"Mhm. Tell me more about these moods."

"Well I'm grumpy a lot. I snap at almost everyone. I guess I just don't like talking about my feelings. I mean, I never talked about them to my parents, and if my parents didn't care, why would anyone else? And it's not manly to talk about one's feelings. That's a girl thing. I mean, the only guys who talk about their feelings are probably Potty and Weasel."

"Tell me more about your relationship with Harry."  
"Relationship?! What relationship? I hate him, he hates me. It's the way it's always

been, and always will be." Wo-w, I am a rhyming machine, Draco thought, impressed. "Okay..." Luna said, scribbling on her notepad. "But then why work for Hermione? If you

don't need the pay? She is his best friend."  
"Well—I mean, it's probably just by chance—but Granger's the only one who agreed to

hire me."  
"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come off it, Lovegood. Who wants to hire Draco Malfoy, son of Old Voldy's right- hand man?"

"Draco—I think we need to 'get this straight.' You aren't your father, and despite what you think, not everyone compares you to him!"

Draco's throat choked up a bit. He glared at Luna over his shoulder. "You don't mean that. You're just saying that because you have to." He frowned. "Because I'm paying you."

"No, that's not what I do. But thank you for questioning my integrity." Luna raised her brows and Draco grudgingly apologised. "Now, listen carefully. I wasn't judging you when you walked in. I accepted you as a client. And I am not judging you right now, either. Accept that," Luna ordered, putting her hair behind her ear.

I can't believe this is actually happening, Draco thought, trying to absorb this information. Loony Lovegood of all people understands me. She isn't judging me... She's actually quite cute, this Lovegood.

Draco smirked—his devil-may-care smirk—and winked at Luna.  
She rolled her eyes in a temporary suspension of professional behavior.

"So, Luna," he started, looking up at the ceiling. "Would you ever want to go get a butterbeer with—"

"Time's up, Draco," Luna interrupted, shuffling her papers. "Make your appointment with Neville up front."

Draco hiccuped. "I love this place, Blaisey." His eyes were watering slightly as he looked off dreamily into a distant corner.

Blaise looked darkly at Draco with narrowed eyes.

"Don't call me that. You always call me that when you've had too much to drink." The two were currently sitting, slumped, in a booth at the Three Broomsticks.

"You know what I love about it, Blaisey? I was always on a date here. Back in Hogwarts, I always came here with my ladies, and old Potty was only here with Granger, Weasel, and disgustingly—I mean, really, Blaisey—the Weaslette."

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Blaise yelled, banging his drink back down on the table. "...It's diminutive." He folded his arms grumpily.

"You know what else?" Draco asked, his pronunciation slurred as he slumped even further forward onto the table. He tried to catch Blaise's eye intently, but the stagnant tears that pooled in his lower eyelid obscured his vision. "You know what else? Potty and Weasel were such losers! It was great! Hah, hah..." Draco laughed inanely, wiping his eye.

"What a burn," Blaise said coldly, his brows raised. He took a long swig of firewhiskey, sighing.

Draco stared at him blankly. He suddenly spoke. "You know what's the difference between you and me, Blaisey?" he asked, beginning to giggle. "When we get drunk, I get happy, and you get sad and talk with normal words." Draco surrendered to a peal of giggles, his mouth hanging open stupidly. Blaise refused to acknowledge him.

Draco laughed for a while longer, then sighed deeply, wiping his eyes with his napkin. "Oh, yes...they were losers and they couldn't even get more than one girl ever to go out with them. And now Weasel's lost Hermione, who was practically the only girl who ever even liked him." Draco frowned, slurping some spittle. "You know what, I wish that he wasn't such a loser. Granger's been so nit-picky at work lately, wanting all her paperwork done, and on time..."

"I work with you, I know that. And she's always like this. You just never pay her any attention. It's only since she mentioned (and God knows why she did) that she broke it off with Weasley that you've been complaining about her." Blaise set his mug down and folded his arms again.

"Well, forget Granger, anyways."  
"She's our boss, you can't just forget her."

"I meant right now, you idiot. Forget her right now because I've got something very important to say on the subject of women."

"What do you know about women?  
"Only that I'm in love, you git."  
"You. Are. In love?" Blaise asked, biting his lip. "Yeah. Is that offensive to you?"  
Blaise shook his head, his eyes beginning to water. "Then what's your bloody problem?"

Blaise burst out laughing, robust and noisy laughter. "You—in love? I never thought I'd see the day. Tell me about it."

"It's Luna." "Luna?"

"Luna Lovegood, dolt, she's been my therapist the past few weeks and I just really like her. Her world, her butterflies and rainbows and crumple-skinned snotbags and all that..." Draco trailed off mistily, sighing.

Blaise stared at his friend for a moment, and then shook his head. "You are so drunk." "You idiot."  
"Fine, fine. Have you told her?"  
"What?"

"That you love her! It seemed to be pretty important to you a second ago."

"Well—of course not. How could I? She's so wonderful, and I'm—well, me. No one likes me or thinks any good of me. Look at what I am, the product of two of Voldy's right-hand slaves." Draco slumped dramatically in his chair.

"Don't be such a Hufflepuff!" Blaise hissed seethingly. "You, sir, are Draco Malfoy. Slytherin prince!"

"Well...yeah, thanks. But I don't think I could ever tell her." Draco hiccuped once more. "I'm too much of a Hufflepuff, as you put it." He reached into his pocket suddenly, pulling out a chocolate frog. "Do you want it?"

The door tinkled open, as a great rush of people crowded into the Three Broomsticks. "Bollocks. Get down," Draco spat.  
"Why?"  
"It's Luna!"

"Hey, since when are you two on a first-hand basis, anyways?"

"Shut up," Draco retorted as he attempted to cower behind the rather large, almost empty, firewhisky bottle.

To his embarrassment, mostly because he was quite pissed and grimy from his afternoon of Quidditch, Luna spotted him.

"Oh, hello, Draco!" she greeted him brightly, with a man in tow. "How are you doing? It's quite a lovely evening; I heard the Quintenpuffs singing."

Draco attempted to regain composure, and not to act like a complete tosser. He replied, "I'm well enough, how are you? You look lovely this evening."

The man behind Luna coughed at this remark. Luna chuckled and dragged him forward to introduce him.

"I don't believe you've met my husband, have you? Draco, this is Rolf Scamander."

Draco's face fell. Losing all composure and along with it all sense of logic, he spluttered slobberily, "Husband?!"

"Yes," Rolf said, with a hint of a warning. "Husband."

Luna tinkled a laugh as she put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Draco, I'll see you on Thursday, right?"

Draco attempted wildly to regain some control over this situation, smirking and throwing a look at Rolf. "Thursday. Can't. Wait."

Rolf rolled his eyes, grabbed Luna's hand and walked her to the other side of the room. "Hah," Draco let out a smug laugh. "I showed him."

Blaise chuckled. "Yeah, you showed him. Him, as in Luna's husband. The husband of the woman you love."

"Shut up, you tosser, and have a frog."


	2. Chapter 2: Superego

**Superego**

**"das Uber-Ich"**

"The Super-ego can be thought of as a type of conscience that punishes misbehavior with feelings of guilt" (Arthur S. Reber, The Penguin Dictionary of Psychology [1985]).

Thursday morning, Draco sat at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, feeling quite guilty. He'd acted like a complete fool the night before, and was now feeling the repercussions of it.

"I have to explain everyting to Luna. Get her to understand. I have to change. I can't be this person anymore."

"Hello, Neville!" Draco greeted.  
"Er...hello, Draco," Neville said, looking up in surprise.  
"Is she ready to see me?"  
"Yes, third—"  
"—Door on the left. I know." Draco headed in that direction. Neville Longbottom was very confused.

Before Luna could say anything, Draco began speaking.

"I'm sorry, Luna. I didn't meant to be so rude to your—your—"

"Husband," Luna finished his thought, looking slightly amused.

"Yes, him. But you have the absolute right to understand where I'm coming from. You see, I'm in love with you."

"Love?"

"I'm...sorry."

"Oh, Draco." Luna shook her head.

"Was that, 'Oh, Draco, you pathetic sot,' or 'Oh, Draco, of course I'll leave my husband to be with you, love of my life'?"

"It wasn't either."  
Draco paused, confused. "Oh." He frowned.

"Draco, sit down," Luna ordered, pointing to the couch. He hastened to obey. "I have to tell you something that I suspected last night, and I'm sure of it now, but you're not going to like it."

Draco frowned, nodding, trying to prepare himself.

Luna took a deep breath before continuing. "Draco. I believe that you're experiencing this thing called Transference."

Draco stared at her blankly. That doesn't sound like 'love' to me, he thought, confused. "What's that?"

"Transference...is the transferring of feelings towards one person onto another. Usually it occurs because the person experiencing these feelings has reason to suspect that the feelings towards person A are somehow inappropriate, so the person transfers these feelings, good or bad, to another person—person B."

"So...so...what?" Draco said, still confused.

"Okay, take your situation. In your case, you are transferring feeling that you have for someone else onto me. You think you feel these things for me, but you really feel them for another person, someone for whom you might find it inappropriate or repulsive to have feelings." Luna tilted her head to the side, looking concerned. "Do you understand?"

"Wait, wait, wait a minute," Draco said, throwing up his hands. "Are you saying that I'm in love with someone else?"

"Yes," Luna said, folding her hands. "That's my belief." "Who the bloody hell would I be in love with?"

"Well...I have certain theories regarding this point. But to be completely honest, I don't think you're ready for me to tell you."

"What?" Draco said, incapable of processing this information. "Come on, Luna, please just tell me."

"Not now," Luna said, refusing staunchly. "Let's try some more free association." "Fine. And then you'll tell me?"  
"Just lay down, Draco."  
"Okay," he said, and he laid down.

"Go ahead," Luna prompted, sounding tired.

"Well," Draco said, unsure where to begin since all he wanted to do was ask her who he loved. He racked his brains for a moment and then began.

"I've been feeling really guilty recently. I'm sorry for a million things. I'm sorry I wanted to be like my father. I'm sorry for acting like a complete tosser in front of you and your husband. I'm sorry for spending 50 galleons at Honeydukes. I still have some sweets. Hey, do you want a frog?" Draco said, pulling one out of his pocket and offering it to her. She shook her head. "Okay. Never mind. Anyways," he continued, settling back down. "Actually, good choice, Lovegood, I'm pretty sure I gained five pounds. And I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry. I'm just really sorry! For everything."

"I'm sorry for drinking all that firewhisky. I got a massive hangover. I'm sorry for a lot of things. I'm sorry that I thought I was in love with you. I'm sorry for cursing all the time. I don't even use all the words in the right context. I'm sorry to whoever I'm really in love with because I don't know I'm in love with them. I'm sorry for calling Blaise Blaisey. I know he hates that. I'm sorry for being mean to Granger all the time. It's not her fault I'm a crap employee. She just wants to get work done, save some elfish lives and all that. I'm almost sorry for being mean to scarhead Potter. But I'm not sorry for being mean to Weasel. He deserves it. Treating Granger like a house elf. What an arse—"

Draco paused, gasping for air, sucking in each breath. "Time's up, Draco."  
"Already?!"  
"Make your next appointment with—"

"Neville out front, I know."  
As Draco was walking reluctantly out into the corridor, Luna called out.

"Oh, and Draco? For the next week, pay special attention to those around you. People you converse with, people who make you feel differently, or people who inspire you."

Draco nodded, walking out.

Inspire you? Who does she think I am, a bloody poet?

It was two hours till lunch. Draco was quite bored. He had finished his project early, but wasn't stupid enough to go ask for more work. He tried apologising to Ernie for poking

him in the eye that one time, but Ernie ran quickly in the other direction as soon as he saw Draco approaching him. So, Draco remained at his desk, spinning in his chair idly, making things zoom around his cubicle with his wand.

"Draco?"

Draco spun around in his chair to face Hermione. He felt like saying, "I've been expecting you."

But he didn't.

"Yes?"

"I have a new assignment for you, since I noticed you seem to be done with the other."

Semi-glad to have something to do, Draco offered to take the stack of files in Hermione's hands. It was heavy.

He immediately regretted his decision. "Yeah. Sure, when do you want this by?" "Next Monday would be lovely."  
Draco nodded. "Done."

"Thanks," Hermione said with a small smile, looking a little suspicious as she walked away.

As he watched her disappear, a horrible sinking invaded Draco's stomach. "Bloody hell," he whispered, "I'm in love with Hermione Granger." Suddenly, Blaise poked his head up from the adjoining cubicle.  
"About time you figured that one out," he chuckled.

"Can you explain that to me one more time?" Blaise asked, frowning deeply.

"Blaise—" Draco began, then caught himself, guilty for the feeling of wanting to smack Blaise upside the head. "Ugh." He sighed. "Okay. So, there's this thing called Transference. Now, I've been doing some research to get the whole story. Apparently, when someone has any sort of feelings for another person that for some reason make that person feel guilty, their mind represses that information into that person's

unconscious, so it's not available information anymore. You know that they say that two thirds of the mind are out of reach, part of the unconscious?"

"Anyways, the person will then find another towards whom he doesn't find it as unacceptable, and he transfers his feelings for the other person to the person who will make him feel less guilty. So the person isn't really in love with the person they think they're in love with, but really a person for whom they didn't know they held a fancy at all." Draco folded his hands, apparently pleased with his report.

"Yeah," Blaise drawled, frowning and shaking his head. "Here's the thing...You can't really understand why I'm not getting this?"

Draco threw up his hands.

"Make an anecdote," Blaise suggested, raising his brows. He took a large bite of pie. "Maybe you can tell a story better than you can explain a psychological term."

"Fine," Draco said, trying not to become angry. He sighed hugely, then began his story.

"Potty. He's in love with Granger. But he feels bad about it. It's not right, since she's his boss, and a Mudblood for Merlin's sake. So Potty's mental mind decides to repress the information that he's in love with Granger...he pushes it away. His mind elves take it and put it somewhere really hidden and inaccessible, so that even if he tries to think about it, he won't be able to recall the information. He won't know that he loves Granger. But really, he still loves her and still has those feelings in him, and they need to attach to someone else now. So one day, Potty goes to therapy and reconnects with Luna, and he thinks, 'hey, she's pretty,' and pretty soon, after a few sessions, he thinks he loves her. But really it's just his left-over feelings for Granger that are attaching to Luna—it's the transference of his feelings from one, unacceptable person to another, more acceptable one."

"Draco," Blaise said, looking distinctly amused, "you realise you just described yourself, right, and you only called yourself 'Potty'?"

"Oh, hell. Do you get it now?"

"More so...but hah, hah, to think that I thought you'd be good at that!" Blaise laughed. Draco folded his arms grumpily.

"You know, I'm trying harder than usual to explain this to you," he pouted, and Blaise stopped laughing, instead squinting analytically at Draco's face.

"You're right," he said, after a moment, "It is rather uncharacteristic of you to give a damn whether or not someone understands what you're talking about, and believe me, usually we don't."

Draco rolled his eyes.

The clock chimed that it was time to go back to work. Draco began to get up, but Blaise grabbed his arm quickly, arresting him in his grip.

"Aren't you going to pick up the bill? I sat through three horrible explanations of this thing called transference, and I want some compensation," Blaise said, and Draco sighed, drawing out his wallet from his pocket.

"Hi, Granger," Draco said shyly as she walked by his cubicle. He watched her stop walking, tilt her head, and back up a few paces.

"Hello, Malfoy," she said softly, a question in her glance. Bloody hell, Malfoy, just ask her, Draco thought, frowning.

"Granger, er—what's your address?" he asked quickly, fumbling for a blasted pen and a pad of paper.

"Why?" she asked him, her eyes automatically narrowing. "You aren't going to send me a crate of frog spawn or something, are you?"

"Of course not," Draco said, trying to sound shocked. It's not like the thought hasn't occurred to me before, though. He allowed a note of mischief to creep into his voice as he added, "But if I were, I would hardly answer that question truthfully, would I?"

To his surprise and extreme delight, Hermione offered him a half smile. She walked into his cubicle and wrote down her address on Draco's pad of paper and walked back out, waving at him as she turned around and caught him gazing at her retreating form.

"What are you doing?" Blaise hissed, his head popping over the divider between their cubicles. "Why didn't you ask her out?"

"It should be illegal for her to wear that red dress to work," he mumbled, staring at her back stupidly.

"It should be illegal for you to make that face," Blaise returned. "Why didn't you ask her out?" he repeated.

"Because I have a better plan," Draco muttered out of the side of his mouth, pulling up to his desk suddenly to make a list of necessary steps. "I'm going to court her. That is, if she responds to my epistle."

"Court? Epistle? What are you, some nineteenth-century blue-blood?"

"Well, besides the nineteenth-century part...yeah."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "But you can't be serious?" he asked, watching Draco scribble down his plan. "Courting takes months to escalate into anything like a date."

"I know. But I'm willing to wait for as long as it takes. I want to do absolutely everything right. I'm not taking any chances with this one."

"Oh—okay, I have too many things to say about this. This one? And second, you haven't ever done anything right with her. Besides, you're taking your chances by even thinking of doing this crackpot 'courting' business. What if she doesn't respond? What if she thinks you're a great prat?"

"Oh, shut up and let me write," Draco said, flapping his hands in Blaise's general direction. "Er, sorry, mate," he said, looking back over his shoulder, sorry for snapping, "but I'm really serious about this."

"Suit yourself," Blaise said, and then let out a hearty guffaw. "Get it? Suit yourself? Cause you're a suitor?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Draco said amicably, turning back to his list. Blaise looked over his shoulder.

1. Write epistle.  
2. AskGrangerout.  
3. Live happily ever after.

Blaise rolled his eyes before descending into his cubicle and sorting through his cases.

Mudblood

Granger

Hermione,  
! Despite the fact that I'm a Malfoy, you're Hermione Granger, Weasel's going to cry, and Potty will punch me—I love you I like you. I think we should be more than friends. So I have decided that we should take a break from that insufferable paperwork you continuously assign me and go have lunch. If you would be so inclined to join me, please reply.

Malfoy Draco

P.S. If you give Sigmund an owl treat, he will stop pecking you.

Hermione was sitting in her favorite chair, a book on her lap, nursing a mug of tea. It took her a few moments to notice a gentle and constant tapping on the window. She got up, sighing, and slid aside the curtains to see a blistery and white day, snow swirling around the sparse, black trees in the yard. There was also a very large and angry looking owl, whose beak was attempting to break through the thick pane of glass. Alarmed, Hermione charmed the window open and the bird flew in, settling on the perch of her green chair, looking dignified albeit a little ruffled.

"What do you want?" she asked, not having seen the letter tied tightly to its claw. It proffered the thick, blank envelope and she crossed the room quickly to retrieve it.

She hurriedly tore open the luxurious parchment, imagining invitations to some grand Yule Ball—perhaps Hogwarts wanted he to come back, she thought, and teach the annual dance lessons—but her high hopes instantly dissipated as she recognized the elegant, and yet messy scrawl of her coworker.

Hermione began to read out loud, stumbling over the more heavily crossed-out sections. Illness set in her stomach as she took in the many greetings, imagining just how long it had taken Malfoy to figure out how to address her properly.

"'...Granger, Weasel will cry, and Potty will punch me—'" she snorted, amused against her will.

"Ow!" she yelled suddenly, grabbing her arm. She looked darkly over her shoulder in time to see the great owl charging her arm again, beak open. She quickly scanned the rest of the letter and in the midst of her surprise she discovered annoyance that he hadn't thought to warn her about "Sigmund" before he might have started attacking.

"Now he bloody tells me," she muttered under her breath, searching frantically through her cabinets for something to appease the beast. Finding a chunk of old bread, she offered it quickly to the bird, who accepted it, flying over the the windowsill to devour it noisily.

She read the letter again. Intrigued and unsure, she scribbled a quick reply on the back of the sheet, sending it off with Sigmund and settling again into the world of Austen.

"She wrote me back," Draco stated smugly to Blaise over the thin cubicle wall separating their "work spaces," quite pleased with himself.

"What did she say? More importantly, what did you say?!" Blaise inquired suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

"I asked her out," Draco boasted, proudly raising his chin.

"Do—do you know nothing of courting?" Blaise spluttered in disbelief, his eyes wide. "Bloody hell, Draco, didn't we just go over this? It's supposed to take months before you even spend time alone with her. You're supposed to use the letter as a way to build her confidence in your character, to trick her into believing that you're a half-way decent human being and—"

"She said yes," Draco interrupted.  
Blaise's jaw dropped. He grabbed the letter Draco waved so tauntingly in front of him.

Draco,  
! Okay. Selignman's pub, noon. Past the Leaky, down the lane, across the street from the statue of Palvlov's dogs.

Hermione

"She can't possibly have said yes with a clear head. She probably thinks you're just out for a raise, or out to get her back for making you use that stapler thing." Blaise raised his brows, tossing the letter back to Draco, who caught it looking unfazed.

"Well, I'm actually going to take my chances. It's not like I called her Mudblood or anything. I'm obviously being respectful."

"Good luck, mate," Blaise sighed, grinning and ducking down as a memo went zooming past their heads.

"Seligman's pub," Draco muttered to himself. "A Muggle joint, of all places."

12:03. Draco walked into the pub. As always, fashionably late.  
Hermione was sitting in a booth, her eyes scanning a menu as he slid into the seat

across from her.  
"Hello," Hermione greeted him, looking up.

"Er—" he peeped, nervous at the sudden proximity to those searingly intelligent, pretty brown eyes. "Um, hi." His voice was weak, and he was at a rare loss for words.

Hermione waited a moment, giving him the opportunity so say something, and then folded up her menu, leaning onto the table. "Shall I order us a pint?" she offered, seeming to want to make conversation.

No. Absolutely not. Beer is a peasant's drink. Plus, if I get pissed, I'll give myself away.

But he looked up and saw the lights sparkle in her dark eyes, wide, receptive and semi- trusting. Her lips were slightly parted in a question. He felt something in his head turn mushy. "Okay," he said.

She called over the waitress, who looked an extra second at Draco before taking their order, and then a few moments passed in awkward silence.

"You know, Sigmund is an interesting name for an owl," she said, tapping her fingers on the wooden table.

Draco tensed, his eyes flying wide.

"I was wondering why you, of all people, would name your owl that. I mean, there are a lot of people named Sigmund, probably, but there's this really famous Muggle psychologist called Sigmund Freud..." She went on to talk all about this Muggle psychologist, keeping a close eye on Draco's face.

Bollocks, psychology. She knows. She knows, she knows, she knows...Damn, she knows about the therapy, she knows that I thought I loved Looney. But that I really love her. Did Looney tell her? Damn. This courting is useless, because she obviously already knows. I should just tell her I love her, get it over with. I mean, it wouldn't come as a surprise, she wouldn't be hinting about my involvement with psychology and what not if she didn't know. There she goes, nattering on about his fame and world-renowned studies, blah, blah, blah...She's cute when she natters, actually. How could I not love her? Look at those lips... FOCUS. She knows.

"Malfoy."

What am I going to do? Okay, calm yourself. What am I going to say to her?

"Malfoy."

Throw her off track? Yes, that's it, I'll just lie when she asks. I won't admit it, I'll even call her Mudblood if that would help.

"Draco!"  
Draco snapped out of his internal crisis. "Er...yes?"

"Are you...alright?" Hermione regarded him from the side of her eye, clearing her throat quietly.

Draco nodded, unable to find words.

"Did you hear what I was saying?"

"Um, yeah, about that, I know I should probably explain myself now—"

"No, it's okay. I understand," Hermione said, making a sympathetic face. Draco's heart fluttered.

"You—you do?" he asked, nervous.

"Of course!" She looked at him kindly. "You've obviously taken a sudden interest in Psychology, which is a fascinating subject. It's perfectly acceptable that you're broadening your horizons despite your views about the social hierarchy."

"I'm sorry, I know I should have—wait. What?"

"Psychology," Hermione said, looking confused and a little suspicious. She frowned, and then shook her head. "How long have you been studying it?"

"Studying...psychology? Me? Granger, have you gone mad?" Draco asked in disbelief and with a touch of contempt. Then he paused, his brain catching up to his words. Wait a minute, she thinks I'm studying that crackpot psychology? She really thinks that? Oh, thank Merlin. Draco sat up suddenly, clearing his throat in a dignified manner, and folded his long hands on the table in front of him.

"Thank you for understanding, Granger," he said cooly, hoping she'd ignore his prior outburst. "Not everyone realises that psychology is...a magic of its own." Don't lay it on so thick, Draco. "Er—I mean...Looney introduced me to it and everything."

"You've been talking to Luna?" Hermione asked, looking as though she were trying not to look alarmed, the question a way to make conversation partly so she could ignore what had just happened.

Damn.

"Oh, yes, just in passing. At the Leaky. You know. Last month." He nodded, pinching his lips together. "Yep. That's why. I haven't seen her any other time. Just last month. At the Leaky." He cleared his throat, pulling at his collar. "Last month..."

Hermione, amazed, confused, and a bit startled at Draco's out-of-character stuttering, decided to change the subject. He's obviously embarrassed about taking an interest in something so exclusively Muggle, she thought.

The waitress arrived then, carrying two pints. She smirked at Draco, setting them on the table.

"Oh, look! The pints are here!" Draco exclaimed, throwing up his hands, in an uncharacteristically loud voice, his eyes wild and wide. Hermione could almost imagine foam tumbling out of his mouth."

"Draco...are you okay?"

"Yes, yeah, of course," he said, rolling his eyes and downing half the pint. Grimacing, he swallowed noisily.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "What is this?" "It's...just beer, Draco," Hermione answered, confused.

"Just beer my arse, it's like foamy bath water! Excuse me, barmaid-woman-person, can we get a bottle of firewhisky and some glasses?" He yelled, scanning the pub for the waitress, waving his hands in the air.

"Draco, it's only noon...and a Muggle bar," Hermione hissed, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Oh, erm, whisky...I meant firewhisky because it puts a fire in my belly," he said loudly, rubbing his stomach, as the waitress approached their table and chuckled, batting her eyelashes. She smiled widely.

"I'll be back with that," she promised, and winked obviously.

Hermione shook her head, folding her arms. "The nerve of some people," she muttered, leaning back in her chair.

"Jealous, Granger?" Draco smirked, pouncing grandly on this opportunity. "You wish," Hermione said, glaring at him. She inhaled noisily. "What a trollop."

"I wish? Please," Draco scoffed, leaning back and raising his brows, attempting wildly to gain some nonchalance. "No way! Er...but—I mean..." Draco shook his head and drained the remainder of his "foamy bath water."

The waitress returned, putting down the glasses and a rather large bottle of whisky, "accidentally" brushing her arm against Draco's shoulder.

Hermione scoffed.

Under normal circumstances, Draco thought, this may have been welcome, but since I'm in love with Granger and everything I should probably pretend I don't notice. I got too close just now to admitting...that.

Draco didn't know what to do. He grabbed a tumbler and struggled a moment to unscrew the cap of the bottle of whisky, ignoring Hermione's disapproving glances. My God, it's just like the school days, he thought darkly, pouring two rather over-full glasses and pushing one her way. He drained the other in one gulp and slapped the glass back down on the wooden table. He suddenly felt "fiery." He wanted some answers, and he wanted them now.

All of a sudden, small talk wasn't going to cut it.  
"You know, I'm not so bad," Draco declared, cheeks slightly pink. Hermione blinked, silent, not sure where this conversation would go.

"I mean, yes, I hate Potty, make fun of Weasel's poverty, and used to call you Mudblood, but I'm not evil. I never was. I couldn't even be a proper Death Eater, for Merlin's sake. Tell me, do you really think that I could have killed Dumbledore?"

Hermione, startled, couldn't think of a way to answer.

"I mean, I was just a kid. I wanted attention. My father didn't even love me. And here the three of you were, all...together, and friendly." He spat. "I couldn't stand it. Why couldn't I have that?"

Hermione felt a surge of sympathy after realising that he was taking a stab at serious conversation. "Draco..."

"And now, look at me. For the past four years we've been working together, and have I ever once killed anybody? No. Have I called you Mudblood? Well, okay, once or twice, but you get what I mean. Evil. Not me."

"I don't—"

"I'm a good guy, Granger," Draco growled, cutting her off before she could give him any nonsense. "Why can't you see that?" His voice was low.

"Draco, I'm not really sure why—"

"Stop it with the bloody lo-gic! Just do something you want. Say what you feel." He glared at her, breathing hard.

"Like you do that?" she snapped, standing up furiously. "Your feelings are all hidden behind those curse words and stupid nicknames, and the pain that you give everyone

else at work. You say whatever the bloody hell you want but it's never how you feel about something, you're never vulnerable—you only poke us in our soft spots when we let our guard down. Do you ever do what you feel, that isn't giving someone an insult? Are you just trying to be some tough guy, someone you think you should be?" Hermione raged, suddenly unable to contain the flood of words. She sat back down and folded her arms, looking away.

Draco sat there for a moment. He furrowed his brows; he didn't want to let that get to him. Reaching for the bottle, he poured another glass and knocked it back.

"Fine," he said, still angry. "Have it your way, Granger. You know what I feel like?"

He leaned across the table, pulling Hermione's face towards his and grabbing it between both hands, and kissed her. She jumped back, but he had her face and didn't let go.

He finally leaned back with a smirk, which slowly faded as he took in the look on Hermione's face.

She looked like fury. "Wrong answer, Draco," she hissed, getting up and grabbing her things, jutting her chin towards him threateningly. "Take the rest of the day off. Don't come back to work today."

She stormed away, walking out of the pub.

Draco leaned onto the back chair legs, combing his fingers through his hair, then rubbing his chin. He felt bad.

"Well, shit."


	3. Chapter 3: Ego I

"You kissed her."

"Yes."

"You _kissed her_?"

"Yes!"

"Prat."

"Git!"

Sighing, Blaise shook his head.

"You really, really suck at this courting thing."

"Well, I'm a man. How am I supposed to control myself?"

"Yes, Draco, you're a man. You just _are_, you're an adult. You can't go around kissing whoever the bloody hell you please—"

"It's not just anyone, it's _Hermione_. Besides, she told me to!"

Blaise shook his head in disbelief. "What?"

"Well, okay, not exactly. But she told me to do something I felt. I felt like kissing her, _ergo_, I did."

Groaning, Blaise put his head in his hands. He looked up suddenly. "_Ergo_?"

"Forget that," Draco snapped. "What was I _supposed_ to do, Mr. Right?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe something along the lines of _NOT KISS HER_?"

"Well, I did. So now what?"

"Quit."

"What?!"

"Just run away from your problems."

"Okay, maybe it's just Looney getting to my head, but I'm pretty sure that's not what you're supposed to do."

"I don't know what else to tell you, mate. You kind of screwed up."

Hermione felt nervous. Her hands were shaking as she clutched her handbag close to her body. She smoothed her hair, reapplied her lipstick, and tapped her heel on the wooden floors. She looked to the clock, and then to the empty receptionist's desk. The clock. Empty desk. Hair. Clock.

"Ms. Lovegood will see you now—Hermione?" A familiar voice greeted her from the hallway, and she snapped her head around wildly, her eyes flying wide.

"Neville?" She gawked. "You're a receptionist?"

"Yes, Luna pays me more than she should so I'll stay." Neville frowned. "To be honest, you're one of the last people I would have expected to see here."

"Really? How can you tell I don't have problems?" Hermione snapped, and then apologised.

"It's not that, I just thought you'd try to sort them out yourself rather than seek help. Anyways, Luna will see you now."

"Alright, I'll see myself in." Hermione's heels clicked annoyingly on the floor as she found her way into Luna's office.

"Hello, Hermione," Luna said, her hands folded neatly over her desk. "Before we start, could you fill out these waivers?"

"I don't have time for paperwork, Luna. I need help. I'm looney." Hermione immediately felt embarrassed, looking at Luna out of the corner of her eye. "No—no offense."

"None taken," Luna said, smiling, pushing the stack of papers (that looked disproportionately large, Hermione thought) off to the side of her desk, refolding her hands. "What can I help you with?"

"I just need to talk to someone. I thought since we're old friends, you might be able to help me understand myself more than some stranger." Hermione looked desperately at Luna, who nodded.

"Please sit down," she said, gesturing to the shallow couch against the other wall. Hermione sat, looking around nervously.

She didn't wait for Luna to invite her to talk.

"I'm just so mad. I went to lunch with Malfoy—"

"Draco Malfoy?" Luna interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, that prat. He invited me by post, I thought it was rather odd, really I thought he wanted a raise or revenge for when I made him use Muggle office supplies at work—I am his boss, you know, he has to do what I say and he hates it—but I said I'm meet him just so I could tell him I wasn't going to get a raise until he upped his game, you know...did more work and didn't complain so much. But it turns out, I'm pretty sure he invited me out to embarrass me. Maybe that way he thought he'd bully me into agreeing to give him a raise or something, which is preposterous, by the way. But he got really—and I mean, really _really_— drunk, and started spewing all this nonsense at me that I assume was supposed to make me feel bad—"

"What did he say, specifically?" Luna asked, taking out a notebook and a pen.

"Some nonsense about how he was always jealous of Ron and Harry and I in school, at Hogwarts you know, and how he wasn't good enough to be a Death Eater—which is really an oxymoron, I mean Death Eaters are_evil_ and who would want to be a 'proper' one anyways, besides a psycho?" Hermione took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He might not be a psycho, okay, but he is clearly insane, or unstable at the very least. Anyway, he asked me to question his humanity, to regard him as a normal human because he hasn't killed anyone in the last four years. Really? Oh, yes, I'm a good little boy, I mean I haven't even killed anyone, so like me?"

"Maybe Draco's feelings for you are valid—"

"Feelings?" Hermione felt angry.

"Well, erm," Luna said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "I mean to say, well..."

Hermione wasn't listening. Her eyes had brightened and her face had cleared with an expression of realization. She turned slowly to Luna, piecing things together. "Malfoy said...Luna, psychology...Wait, _wait_. Wait _just a minute_, Malfoy came _here_, to therapy! You know _all_ about this! You could have stopped him! Why didn't you say something to him, to dash his delusions to pieces? Why—"

"Hermione, Hermione, I had no idea that Draco would react that way when he figured things out—"

"Figured _what_ out?"

"Hermione, let's pick up this meeting tomorrow evening. I'm going to schedule the same slot for Draco, and we'll talk everything out. I can imagine that it would be difficult at the workplace in the meantime, but if you have any doubts in how to respond to Draco's comments, just remain silent."

Hermione was extremely angry, but she cooled off, telling herself that at least she would understand what was going on, and her life might return to something like normal when it was all over.

_This might not ever be over_, Hermione thought to herself as she watched Draco storm into the waiting room and sit in a seat in the corner, throwing her dark glances every once in a while. _You great prat, you're still ruining my life even after Voldemort's dead. I didn't think anything could ever bother me again, not even Ron, the idiot._

_Hell, I can't wait to see Hermione's face when she finds out I'm in love with her_, Draco thought broodingly._Will she scream, or slap me first?_

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," Neville said, suddenly stepping out from the corridor and beckoning the two of them down the hall. Draco watched Hermione hurry to be first, and consoled himself by telling himself that he wanted her to go first.

Hermione sat stiffly on the black leather couch, as far away from Draco as she possibly could. Draco, not satisfied with the distance between them, placed a pillow in the empty space. Hermione scoffed.

"Well... I'm just being cautious, Granger. Wouldn't want you to jump my bones again."

"Excuse me, _Malfoy_, but if I do recall correctly it was you who kissed me."

"In your dreams Gra-"

Draco was stopped short as Luna entered the room. Luna sat down with complete ease across from the not so comfortable couple, and took out her notepad. She sat for a moment or two, as the uneasiness grew.

"Interesting," she smiled dreamily.

"What is so interesting, Luna-"

"Get to the point, Looney -"

The pair spoke at once.

"You know Draco, after our first session, I went to a Muggle library and researched a bit on Freud. Did you know that he came to the conclusion that people can't distinguish between love and hate?"

Draco paused. He instantly remembered that prattish Dr. "Feelgood" and the sign he broke.

_Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate._

"Yes, I do recall something about dogs biting people who mix love and hate."

"Well not exactly, it goes something like-"

"Yes, alright, I understand. I remember I've heard it before - WAIT. Did you just say you went to a _Muggle_library? Why the bloody hell would you do something like that?"

Hermione, who had been silent for quite a while, interjected hotly.

"Here I am sitting, trying to believe what you were telling me-that you are a 'good guy.' What a load of rubbish."

"I said I didn't call you Mudblood anymore, not that I magically realised that Muggles are wonderful and I wish to be surrounded by them every moment of every day."

"Both of you, settle down. Now, Hermione, have you ever heard of a thing called transference?"

Draco muted her out as he let his mind wander. He'd already heard this before. He finally knew something Granger didn't! _Being around Potty and Weasel must have really dumbed her down all these years. It's kind of cute when she doesn't know something. Her nose scrunches up and her eyes get all big. Wait, why is she staring at me angrily? Focus, Draco. Stop talking to yourself._

"What?" Draco raised his eyebrows.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"What?" He repeated.

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"Bloody hell. She told you."

"You were sitting right there!"

"Sorry, Looney," Draco said turned to face Luna, "I kind of tuned you out a bit. I couldn't stop thinking about her nose."

"What about my nose?" Hermione asked angrily.

"Nothing..." Draco said quickly.

"Spit it out, _Malfoy_."

"I have nothing to say to you, Frizzball."

"Don't pay any attention to him Hermione, that's his _id_ talking."

"That's when-"

"Pay attention to _me_!"

"It's all about _you_, isn't it, Malfoy."

"Draco, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down, it's not my fault my head's always in the clouds like yours, Looney."

Luna, taken aback, simply began to write ferociously in her notepad.

"You are an _ass_, Draco Malfoy," Hermione fumed.

"What have I done?"

"You never care about other people."

"Yes I do!"

"Name one."

"You."

Hermione scoffed.

"Like I'd believe that."

"Well it's _true_."

"You don't care about anyone but yourself, Malfoy. You say that you're a decent person, but I find that very hard to believe. It was _you_ who let those Death Eaters in. It was _you_ who tried to Crucio my best friend. It was _you_ who tried to kill Harry in the Room of Requirement. How am I supposed to believe after all these years of torment and ridicule, that you like me? That you care for me?"

"Granger..."

"No. I don't want to hear it. I've been nothing but civil to you for these past four years. I hired you despite your past. I've put up with your snide comments and your bullying.

"I am done with this. I am done with you."

Draco's eyes hardened.

Hermione sat there, staring angrily at him, out of breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Luna leave, shutting the door.

Draco inhaled sharply, his voice cold. "Forget it. Forget all of it. This transference nonsense. I don't know what I was thinking.

"I feel like you fail to recognize the fact that I am a human being. Yes, I've made mistakes. But have you ever thought to see things from _my_ perspective? _He_ was going to kill my parents, Hermione. And me! My father made bad decisions, and I had to struggle with them. I had to deal with the consequences of his actions. Do you think I wanted that? Do you think I wanted to hurt people? That I wanted Potter, a boy _my_age, to die? I was dealt a bad hand, and I had to deal with it in the best way I could. I recognize my faults, and those actions I took. I'm not blind to the fact that I was wrong. Do you know what it feels like to know you've made mistakes but to never be forgiven? Every day, I have to deal with the fact that I was the reason Dumbledore died. That my father took part in a genocide. That even I took part of it. But what you fail to realise, along with the rest of the Wizarding world, is that I recognize what I've done. You have no idea how sorry I am. You have no idea what my life is like, and all I have to face. Remember third year? Lupin's Boggart exercise? Your worst fear was that you would fail all of your classes. Do you know how envious of you I was? That _failing_ was your biggest worry?"

"But-"

"No. You don't understand. You can't possibly understand." Draco's voice tightened.

Draco put his head in his hands, looking down at his feet.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment.

"I don't want your _pity_. I don't want you to feel like you're doing me a favor by hiring me. You can take that as my two weeks notice."

Hermione looked at Draco with watery eyes.

"Department policy states that you need to file an official report of your leave. You have to go through administration."

"Fine. I'll see you at work." Draco stood walking to the door.

"Draco..."

"I do deserve more than this," he said softly, closing the door behind him.

Draco traipsed grumpily into the office.

"Blaisey," he said, tipping his imaginary hat in Blaise's direction.

"What's wrong with you, mate?" Blaise asked, frowning deeply. "I thought we'd gotten past this 'Blaisey' thing."

Draco sat down in his chair, throwing his suitcase on the ground, sighing dramatically. "I tried to quit," he mentioned, and Blaise's eyes flew wide open.

"What?"

"I. Tried. To. Quit," he said, raising his brows. "What's so hard to understand?"

"I see your sass has made a comeback," Blaise replied cooly, raising his own brows. "And just for the record, last time we talked, you didn't say anything about quitting. That's sort of a big deal."

"Not for me," Draco said. "I have a whole manor to be my worth, I don't need a job. You know that. Figure it out."

"First of all," Blaise said, a little angry. "_Woah_. And second, as your best friend, I feel the need to point out to you that getting a job was actually _your_ idea—you know, the 'need to feel worthwhile' thing?"

"'Worthwhile'?" Draco asked, narrowing his eyes. "So nothing else about my life is 'worthwhile'?"

"I didn't mean—"

"I think you _did_ mean it. You know what I think? I think no one knows what the bloody hell my life is like. Well try living it for a day, then get back to me." Draco turned his back on Blaise, reaching down into his briefcase.

Blaise popped over the edge of the cubicle wall.

"Don't forget," he hissed, "that I was right there with you. You're not the only one who has a past. You're not the only one that hasn't been forgiven. Look, I know it's a sore subject and we usually never bring it up. But keep your attitude in check. Remember I'm your _friend_. I know. I _understand_."

Draco looked down at his desk.

"Sorry, mate," he mumbled.

The two looked up at the familiar click of heels against the hardwood floor.

"Blaise, I have some cases for you to go through," she handed him a stack of files.

"Sure thing, Granger, I'll get right on it."

Hermione looked at Draco pointedly, eyes searching his for some idea of what was going through his mind. "Don't worry about it," she said, without glancing in Blaise's direction.

Blaise raised his eyebrows looking back between Draco and Hermione, and retreated back into his cubicle.

The two stared at each other for a few moments.

"Hermione!" called a voice down the hall.

"Coming!" Hermione looked back at Draco awkwardly shifting her feet. "I have to go."

Draco continued to stare.

Sighing, Hermione turned and continued towards Penelope Clearwater's office.

It was past 6 o'clock and only a few people were left in the office.

"Ready to go, mate?" Blaise asked.

"Go ahead, I have to finish up some reports."

"Alright, have a good night."

"Bollocks," Draco exhaled pinching the bridge of his nose.

_I keep messing up this report. Focus, Draco._

Forget this, I'm going home.

He gathered up his things.

"Draco?"

Draco raised his head at the voice.

"Yes?"

"What are you still doing here?"

"Working," he replied tersley, wishing that he'd left something out on his desk.

Hermione looked down and sighed.

"Something you needed, Granger?"

Hermione looked hurt. She hesitated, and then spoke.

"Draco, those things you said yesterday, I didn't know you felt like that. I had this image of you in my head, but you were honest with me about who you are. I respect that, and actually admire it. I'm going to do my best to be open with you too. I want you to know that I think your feelings are valid. I may not understand what you feel, but I understand _why_ you feel what you do. As hard as it is for me to admit this, I was wrong in trying to generalize who you really are based on your past, and I'm sorry for that. But you can't expect me to all of a sudden see you in a new light. Other than what you said last night, you've never been open with me about how you feel. You've never allowed me to see that you've changed. I can't read your mind, Draco. I didn't have any reason to suspect that you're different now."

_And you're still a right ass,_ she thought. _You're the problem, not your parents._

Hermione held her breath, waiting for his reaction.

Draco blinked. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Just, okay."

Hermione wanted desperately for some clarification; she wanted to ask him, 'so, where do we go from here?' But she didn't. Draco had never been a man of many words anyways.

They looked at each other for a moment and left the room without another word, walking silently out of the office space, side by side.

It had been a few days since Hermione had confronted Draco—and yet he felt that they'd been getting along more comfortably than usual. It was a hesitant, gentle friendship, clearly in its beginning stages. He was no longer consumed by thoughts of her, feeling for her. And yet, Draco still couldn't eradicate his strong attraction, as much as he tried to put things in perspective. She still occupied a distant corner of his mind at all moments, but he could separate it from his work. He found more often than not that in his free moments his mind strayed to her, her way of putting words, her nose when she was angry, her intelligent, wonderful eyes. But he no longer let himself get carried away.

Draco finally had a semblance of control. He no longer felt powerless to his emotions, his passion, his temper, his sass. While desires were still present, he didn't give into them as easily as he once used to. Every time a burning desire arose, something in his mind filed it back into place. These reactions were natural and innate, and seemed to be dependent upon finally getting things out in the open with Hermione.

Even Blaise noticed that there was something different about Draco. At first, he was suspicious of this new attitude Draco had. But over the next few days he realized that Draco was genuinely happier.

_Okay, there are a few reasons why he's happy:  
He had finally gotten those new dragon leather shoes he has been eyeing.  
He has been continually having good hair days.  
He stopped going to therapy.  
He -_

Wait, he must have sorted things out with Granger. That's why he's actually doing his paperwork without murderous mutterings. 

"So...Draco..."

"Yes, Blaise?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm really glad that you've finally sorted things out. It seems like some of that weight has lifted off your shoulders, and you seem a lot more relaxed."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Stop talking about your feelings, Zabini. What _are_ you? A Hufflepuff?"

"I heard that," said Ernie from a few cubicle away.

The next day, Draco entered the office. As he approached his desk, he realised something was off. He came to see that his and Blaise's cubicles were cut in half, and there was an extra one on the right of his own.

"Granger! What in Merlin's name happened to my desk?" Draco roared.

Hermione came out of her office, "Well-"

"Oh, I'm sorry," someone interrupted.

Blaise's jaw dropped.

Draco turned towards the voice, curious as to why Blaise's mouth was agape.

"Bloody hell..." Draco remarked, surprised at the figure in front of him.

The woman smiled and held out her hand. "Hello. I'm Astoria Greengrass."

"Oh," Blaise said dumbly. "You're...er...well..."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Daphne's sister, right? Pleasure."

Draco grasped her hand.

Blaise, finally finding his voice, but not quite thinking, blurted out, "You look different."

Hermione scoffed.

Draco looked back at Blaise and made a face to quiet him, "What he means to say, is that you grew up well."

She blushed.

He smirked.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Blaise looked down at his feet.

Astoria's hand was still in Draco's as Hermione cleared her throat.

Looking at her, Draco quickly dropped Astoria's hand.

"I hired Astoria here because I figured it was unfair of me to give you two all the work. I thought it would be nice of you two to have an extra set of hands."

"And what a nice pair of hands they are!" Blaise commented, looking quite proud of himself.

"Now Astoria, let me go over a few-"

"Don't worry about it, Granger, I'll make sure Miss Greengrass gets nicely settled in." Draco smiled warmly at Astoria. "She'll feel right at home."

Hermione tensed, which did not go unnoticed by Astoria.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Hermione replied tersely.

Draco, taken aback by her tone, stared after her as she walked back into her office.

_She's probably mad because I undermined her position of the leader of the damned welcome committee._ He shook it off, and began to go through the stack of files on his desk.

Hermione was seething in her office. She was getting quite sick of the constant flirting between Draco and Astoria. _I though Draco and I were making progress. He was the one with that stupid Transference issue that started this whole mess. Now what is he doing? Chatting up some young, leggy twit. But wait, why am I worrying about this. It's not like I have any sort of feelings towards that prat. I just thought we were getting closer, but that was foolish of me to think. We're barely even friends. _

Hermione's internal rant ended as she heard laughing outside her door.

"...and he didn't even realize that it was the Mandrake shrieking the whole time."

Draco laughed. Hermione snorted.

She stuck her head out of her office to glare in Draco's direction. He was leaning against the outside of his cubicle, laughing easily. Astoria, facing him, looked distinctly amused and reached out to touch Draco on the forearm.

Hermione frowned, upset at herself for feeling grumpy. She retreated back into her office and checked through her computer for emails. After a while of running out of things to do, she slumped forward onto her desk, falling asleep.

She was awoken by a loud chirrip from the computer, announcing the arrival of a new message. She flipped her head up, pushing her hair out of her face and wiping her mouth hastily, clicking on the message in her inbox. The subject read "Announcement." She didn't like the look of this; she hated making announcements to the floor. She was always getting laughed at. Not that someone as important as her, and as capable, and as famous, should care about being laughed at; it was silly, she knew, but she was already feeling confused about her progress with Draco and she didn't know if she was feeling up to leers and jeers today.

She saw that the message was from Kingsley, and gave a large sigh as she opened it and read the message inside.

_Hermione,_

Please do not forget to remind your department about the Ministry-wide Ball that will take place at the end of this week. As it is only four nights away, I'm sure that your employees will appreciate the notice.

Thank you,  
Kingsley Shacklebolt  
Minister for Magic

Hermione sighed again, feeling apprehensive. Kingsley had instated the Ball the year that he took charge—he claimed that it improved morale, increased productivity, and relieved the stress that living through a war would produce. Hermione greatly doubted that he had any real, empirical evidence to back up those claims, but she couldn't refuse the Minister for Magic, even if he was an old acquaintance.

She would hardly admit it, so it was lucky that no one was asking, but she always had fun at those balls. It was hard for her to think of skipping out this year, for the stupid reason of lacking a date. Hermione Granger, dateless to the Ministry-Wide Ball! It was absolutely pathetic.

She stood up, shaking her head slightly, checking her appearance in the mirror. She straightened her hair and smoothed down her robes before stepping out into the office.

She pointed her wand at her throat, muttering "_Sonorous_," and cleared her throat loudly. Hermione took pleasure in knowing that it was probably a creepy experience to suddenly and out of nowhere hear a voice clearing its throat from all around. Everyone must have been used to it by then, however, because without wiping the smile from his face, Draco turned and stood facing her direction, and Astoria, as well as the rest of the office, followed suit, some heads popping up over the edges of their cubicles.

Hermione looked around, making sure everyone was paying attention—she was only going to make this announcement once.

"Ernie," she said, exasperated. He was constantly falling asleep on the job. It was stress, she was sure, stress generated by worrying about being hit in the eye with spitwads from Draco.

"Sorry," his voice said from inside his cubicle. His head popped out shortly after, a paperclip stuck to one of his ears and his face striated from lying on what she suspected must have been the spiral part of a spiral-bound notebook.

"Okay, everyone pay attention please, I would rather not say this more than once. This Friday at eight o'clock in the Atrium the Ministry is holding its sixth annual Ministry-Wide Ball. The dress code is strictly formal; wear your best dress robes. Attendance is not necessary but is said to improve morale, increase productivity, and relieve stress. Thank you."

She retreated to her office after she was sure that everyone had registered the news. She wished that she felt as excited as they all looked.

She sat down, sighing yet another time, and lifted up a folder, sorting things into it. She was startled to hear a rap at her door. Looking up, she saw Draco standing there, grinning cheekily, his arms behind his back.

"Hello, Draco," she said, sounding tired. "Can I help you with something?"

"Well," he said, inviting himself in and looking around, "nothing in particular."

Hermione rolled her eyes, watching him scan her picture frames and certificates up on the wall.

"Could do with another coat of paint, this wall," he said, making a face, pointing to a large crack.

"Are you on your _scheduled_ lunch, then?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows. Draco cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back again, looking up.

"Er—uh—no," he admitted, hanging his head.

"Then I expect you have work to do."

"All right," he said, turning and walking out of the office. He stopped in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.

"Hermione," he said, "you going to the ball?"

Hermione was startled, first at his civil use of any name other than "Granger," and second at the question itself. She didn't think that he would have cared; it confused her that she felt glad that he did.

"No," she answered after a moment, looking down and letting her hands flutter over her paperwork, to look like she was doing something.

"I think you should," he said, staring at the wall. "You know, you _really_ should repaint these-"

"Thank you, Draco," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "But I'll assume that it's time for you to return to your desk. My walls are my own concern." She stared at him pointedly. He seemed distracted.

"Huh?" he started, and then his eyes seemed to register. "Oh, right, yeah, back to work..." He made a show of marching out of her office and back to his cubicle. He dove into it and popped back up, making his hands into a gun shape and pretending to launch bullets at Hermione's office door. She stood in it, gawking at him-she didn't know he even _knew_ what a gun was-until he grinned cheekily and disappeared again behind the grey of the cubicle wall.

Weird. Weird day.

Long after Draco had retreated from her office, Hermione glanced up at the analog clock hanging on the wall above the door and sat up straight. _Five o'clock_, she thought, shoving stray papers into piles that would almost fool someone into thinking them neat, and standing to straighten her skirt and tuck a few large curls behind her ear. As she flicked her wand to put out the lights without bothering to check if anyone else was still in the office, these curls popped out from behind her ear to land on her forehead and to tangle in her eyelashes. She was momentarily distracted from disengaging them by a series of shrieks coming from beyond the wall.

"Ayo, some of us are tryin'a finish our paperwork," an angry accent intoned from the corner.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered as she flicked the lights back on and scrambled to turn her computer on again. Her cheeks felt warm and she sat down, huffing angrily. "Come on," she grumbled, smacking the side of the monitor with the flat of her hand. The plastic box roared to life, the digital clock reading 16:00. Hermione groaned.

"Why me? Why this clock? Why this office, why the ball?" Hermione buried her face in her hands. _Am feeling quite strange, as though something's unhinged_, she noted, and was interested in the thought until abrupt rapping at the wall beside her open door caused her to jump in her seat.

"Yes, Ernie?" Hermione asked cautiously, observing the man puffed up in front of her doorway. His shadow crossed into the dark realm of carpet beneath her desk, untouched by the shadows of ordinary men.

"Well-I mean to say-_listen_, Hermione, I've known you a good while, and-"

"This man bothering you, boss?" Blaise asked, peeking into Hermione's office through the crook in Ernie's elbow. White light fell upon his cheek and brow bones. Hermione felt like turning off the lights again.

"No, Blaise. Please, return to your desks, or your work, or whatever it is that you do around here at all," Hermione said with a long sigh. She flapped her hands, thinking about her own pitiful appearance.

_Hermione Jean Granger, dateless, witless, clock-less-_

The next hour trailed through time with the determinedly slow pace of an ambling garden snail, and Hermione did nothing about it. No timeturners, no small, trailless incantations to help pass the time. _This is your punishment_, she told herself. _This is what you get for fancying Draco._

She suddenly remembered, at half-four, that Kingsley had demanded she locate a certain case file and have paperwork filed by the end of the day. Peeking out of her office, she noticed Draco, Blaise and Astoria milling about their half-cubicles half-heartedly, and, sucking in a large puff of air, decided to allocate them some work. _Less time for flirting when you're working, right?_

"Zabini! Malfoy!" Hermione paused for a moment, and grudgingly, shouted "Greengrass!"

The trio walked into the office to see Hermione sitting between piles of folders and papers.

"Using last names, Granger? What did we do now?" Blaise asked.

"Have any of you seen the case file for Goyle's hearing?"

Both Blaise and Draco froze for a moment, looking strained.

"Actually, Hermione, I had filed that yesterday," Astoria said, walking over to a filing cabinet at the corner of the office. She bent down and opened the drawer, looking through the files. Blaise noticed Hermione's face suddenly stiffen. Following her line of sight, he saw Draco's cheeks flush a light pink as he glanced at Astoria's backside.

Blaise coughed loudly, Hermione turned away from Draco, and Draco looked up, slightly embarrassed, knowing Blaise did not have a cold.

Astoria held up a file, smiling widely. "Found it!"

Hermione attempted to smile, but failed. Grimacing, she took the file from Astoria and stormed out of the office, leaving two confused employees and a smirking Blaise behind her.

Walking quickly toward the lift, Hermione passed Ernie's stall and looked toward the ground.

"Herm-"

"Not now, Ernie," Hermione said, holding out a hand and tossing the paperwork aside, knowing what Ernie meant to say. She did not look back as she reached the doors to the lift, but wrenched them open and punched angrily at the buttons on the wall. She buried her face in her hand and ran out the doors when they opened on the next floor, running squarely into the chiseled chest of Oliver Wood, Head of the Department for Magical Games and Sports.

"Alright, Hermione?" Oliver greeted, looking slightly amused at a frantic Hermione, now caught in his arms.

"Sorry, I wasn't thinking clearly. I hope I didn't injure your...um... chest..." Hermione said, almost inaudibly.

"I think I'll survive," Oliver replied, cheekily. He stepped back into the lift, motioning for Hermione to join him. "I'm assuming you meant to go down to the lobby? No one is around to talk to around here but me anyway," he teased, grinning.

"Yes, I am a bit distracted today. Dodging Ernie all day is exhausting. I'm already sick of this nonsense ball and it hasn't even happened yet."

"Well then, I guess taking you to the ball myself is the only answer to your problems," Oliver pressed. "It _is_the decent thing to do."

Hermione flushed. _If Draco fancies having an attractive woman on his arm at the ball, what stops me from having an attractive man for myself?_

"You don't waste any time with small talk, do you, Oliver?" Hermione flirted back.

"Well, the way I see it-" Oliver said, leaning towards her, "why waste time with small talk when I could be doing something a bit more productive than talking about the weather?"

Hermione smiled. "I'm sure we can find things much more interesting to talk about than the weather at the ball this weekend."


	4. Chapter 4: Ego II

Things were looking up for Hermione Granger. But perhaps not so for Draco Malfoy. In the morning following her encounter in the lift with Oliver, Hermione overheard Draco and Blaise arguing in their half-cubicles.

"Don't be such a prat, you're not fooling anybody!" Blaise quipped angrily.

"Remember you're on _my side_, not hers! I should lock you in your cubicle, you insubordinate trollop!"

Hermione smiled widely, looking out over the sea of heads bent towards their paperwork, all following her orders. Yes, things were looking up for Hermione.

That is-they had been until Ernie MacMillan got up hesitantly from his seat at his cubicle and then made a beeline towards Hermione's office. Stopping at the door and breathing heavily, he opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione, not fancying a minute more alone in her office with him than she had to bear, stepped around him nimbly and out into the open air of the office space.

"You need something, Ernie?" Hermione challenged, not believing he would ask while she was out in the open, in front of all their coworkers.

"Hermione-will you just-will you just hear me out? Will you go to the ball with me? Please?"

"Ernie-I'm sorry...I can't," Hermione muttered, her face hot despite her sure conscience.

"Hufflepuff's got guts," Blaise said under his breath, and of course, everyone heard.

Unable to stop herself looking over at Draco, Hermione noticed a smirk playing across his little smug face. She felt angry.

"I can't because-because I'm going with someone else!" she blurted, and then almost regretted it; but the regret faded when she saw the smirk fall from Draco's face. He looked around, his face displaying a range of disgust and rage which he attempted to disguise under a thin semblance of self-control.

"Who, then?" Ernie asked defiantly, sticking his chin in the air.

"That's none of your-" Hermione began, but glanced again at Draco, and gathered her wits about her. "If you must know, it's Oliver Wood," she said, and walked back into her office.

The Atrium was white and glittering, full of milling bodies in coloured garb. Draco looked around, feeling slightly inquisitive and very proud. He pulled his arm around and dragged Astoria into the view of any peasant who happened to look upon them. This was a moment unique to balls, in which the commoners fell to their feet in awe of the most beautiful and perfect couple in the vicinity, the quite obvious royalty.

The curtains on the walls were rich plum, scarlet, gold and silver, with dark greens intermingling. More of a fall palate, Draco mused, and this was Spring, but nothing could detract from the beauty of this moment. His tightly-fitted, dark-grey suit was sure to be showing off his most-appealing-assets, and Astoria's red gown with a dangerously low V-shaped back and a slit hinting at something slightly more daring on her upper thigh, was drawing the attention of many males shuffling about the tables circling the dance floor. No sign, yet, of Hermy and Wood, which was fine with Draco. Just fine. Maybe she'd lied in a fit of hysteria and wouldn't show at all. Also fine. And he wouldn't blame her, either, in the face of old Ernie. Much better to lie than to go to the Victory Day Ball with a Hufflepuff.

As he was searching out the bar, Draco spotted Blaise and Pansy squabbling by the punch bowl. Blaise's neatly-gelled hair was sticking out at the edges, creating the effect of a dark halo around his manically-wide eyes. Draco watched the exchange in silent contentment, until Astoria pulled him towards them, her eyes shining.

"Look, there's Pansy Parkinson!" she said, looking eager. "With Blaise!"

_Excited about Pansy Parkinson? Strike one, _Draco thought, the dark thought marring his perfect mood.

"Alright, mate?" Blaise said, looking relieved to see his friend in his hour of need. "Took you long enough!"

"Always fashionably late," Draco said, raising his brows impressively. Astoria tittered at his side.

"I need to visit the loo," Pansy announced suddenly, turning her back on Draco and Blaise and pulling Astoria along with her to the side of the room, where they disappeared behind a tapestry of Cliodne's birds.

"And if you didn't know where the loo was," Blaise said, looking after them, "how would you think to look there?"

"What do you think of Astoria's gown, eh?" Draco asked, chuckling, attempting to distract himself from the hint of doubt he'd felt earlier.

"I know what _you_ thought of it, you should have seen yourself gawking at her in Hermione's office the other day," Blaise muttered darkly. "Hermione looked pretty put out about it, too."

"Hermione-?" Draco stopped himself. _Damn_, he thought. Suddenly the Atrium dimmed, the drapes at the side of the room seemed less luscious, and Draco noted that somebody had neglected to mop the edges of the room sufficiently. They lacked luster.

"Speak of the source of your guilt," Blaise said, as Hermione walked into the Atrium upon the arm of a very chiseled Oliver Wood. Her blue gown bustled around her ankles and dipped off her shoulders, her bushy hair contained in a massive knot at the top of her head, a few strands trailing down to the back of her neck. Draco squinted at her a few moments before spinning around, muttering something about Astoria taking too long in the toilets, and going off in the direction of the tapestry.

As he headed through the tables on the edge of the polished dance floor, something bright and silver caught Draco's eye. Tilting his head to the left, he noticed Luna Lovegood standing up and leaving her husband Rolf sitting at a table with the rest of the Scamanders. He felt suddenly lighter. _Maybe I should have a chat with Luna, he thought, I haven't talked to her in a while and, well-I'm having problems._

Luna changed course, heading away from Cliodne's birds towards the tapestry of _Le Morte d'Arthur. Interesting,_ he thought, and followed her, not noticing a furtive cast to her eyes and the slump of her shoulders as she passed behind the carpet. Draco followed quietly.

It was dark behind the tapestry. Draco heard a quiet murmuring a short way off, and followed it slowly, stumbling over carpets and past silent busts. He found the source of the noise behind a statue of Dobby the House Elf. _This evening is rapidly becoming stranger and stranger_, he thought, nearly chortling, and stopped short at the sight of Luna's face very close to the face of someone else hidden by the dark.

Draco's breath caught in his throat and he struggled not to splutter or draw attention to himself. He was confused and decided to find out who the man was, struggling to breathe quietly. He hid for the moment behind a column across the corridor, and peeked around it hesitantly.

As Draco's sight gradually adjusted to the darkness, his eyes flew open wider as he caught sight of Neville Longbottom trapped in Luna's violent embrace. _Longbottom? And Loony? Longbottom and Loony?_

Draco's heart pounded rapidly. _This is not right,_ he thought, and he stumbled quietly out from behind the column and back the way he came. When he burst into the light of the Atrium, his eyes watered and burned, and he headed without thought back to the punch bowl, where Blaise stood forlornly with his hands in his pockets.

"Where-?"

"Don't ask," Draco said, leaning back against the bar for support. He stood for a while, blinking, wishing the thought out of his head, and then, when it refused to leave, looked over his shoulder at the punch bowl and down at the flask poking out of Blaise's pocket.

"You spike this?" Draco asked, motioning with his chin to the bowl of volatilely pink punch.

"Yes," Blaise said, hanging his head.

"Good," Draco said, and turned, serving himself a goblet full, then downing it in one go.

Looking across the dance floor and feeling a little better, Draco noticed that nearly all of the couples were already dancing. And quite messily.

"There's music playing?" he said dumbly. Blaise looked at him quietly, trying hard not to shake his head.

"I'm going to have a dance," Draco said. He unbuttoned his suit and loosened his tie, casting an eye about for Astoria. She'd be unmistakable in her red dress, and she'd make all these problems go away, surely. But he didn't see her amongst the roving throng. Nothing could be easy!

"I'm going to look for Astoria," Draco mumbled to Blaise, who nodded morosely, hoping he would not bring Pansy back in tow. Draco puffed out his chest, metaphorically shined his shoes, and stalked out through the middle of the dancing crowd, being jostled and groped as he pushed through. Astoria was nowhere in sight, and Draco was tired of people sampling his wares for free. He headed back across the polished marble floor, bumping shoulders with someone tall and broad. He looked up to insult the man, but, realizing it was Wood, decided against it. He stood awkwardly for a moment, his hair beginning to fall in strings in front of his forehead, his other side being jostled by the crowd, and then asked, "where's Hermione?"

"Dunno," Wood replied. "You seen her?"

"She gotten tired of your _dazzling wit_ already?" Draco smirked, and then hurried away, past the bar, where Blaise still stood sadly. _What a pansy_, Draco thought, then laughed to himself. _What a pansy waiting for Pansy_. A waiter passed by toting a tray of champagne on his shoulder. Draco grabbed a flute and drained it quickly, placing the empty glass on the tray with a thud.

_Toilets_, Draco thought, and headed, once again, towards Cliodne's birds. Before he could get very far, he spotted another couple standing in the way, in the middle of a heated discussion. Draco was about to turn away, but he noticed a flash of ginger and instead stalked towards them, feeling bold. Perhaps protective.

"Still trying to win her back, Weasel?" Draco sneered, pointing his chin at the gangly Wizard. Hermione's cheeks flushed, her breathing becoming labored.

"Go, Draco. This doesn't concern you," Hermione said, pointing back into the dance crowd.

"Draco?" Ron gawked.

"Hermione gave you four whole years to make something out of yourself and you've still failed," Draco said, smirking. "Why don't you go save some of your pride by winning over Lavender Brown hanging by MacMillan over there?" he said, pointing into the crowd. "If a Hufflepuff has a shot with her, you only have to impress her a little more."

Ron, red in the face, stood and stared threateningly at Draco, but said nothing, and tried to pull Hermione towards the dance floor with him, but she pulled her hand away and shook her head, looking at the floor.

"No?" Ron asked, and then, turning around, ran into the throng and disappeared amongst the flailing limbs attempting to dance to the Weird Sisters.

"So," Draco said, stepping towards Hermione and trapping her in a dance. He lead her nimbly toward the edges of the crowd.

"I should probably dance with Oliver," Hermione said, trying to pull away. Draco held her against his side firmly.

"I'll keep you company until he comes around again to find you," Draco said, smirking a bit.

"Thanks for helping me out with Ron," she said quietly, looking down at their feet. "That was kind of you."

"I really just wanted to see Weasley cry," Draco said, chortling.

"Why do you always do this? Why do you act this way?" Hermione said, extracting herself from Draco's grasp. Hair was falling into her face now, her bun coming undone and hair untwisting at the top of her head. Her brown eyes flashed dangerously.

"One minute you are showing me the new Draco Malfoy who's changed, and in a second you turn back into the same old _prat_. When we were in Luna's office -"

"Lovegood isn't the best person to get advice from, since she's having an affair with Longbottom," Draco said.

"What?" Hermione asked. "I can't hear you, the Weird Sisters-"

"I said-I wouldn't have gone to get help from Lovegood if I knew she was shacking up with Longbottom," he shouted loudly enough to hear over the music. The music stopped.

"All right, Longbottom!" Blaise shouted.

A glass shattered as Rolf Scamander stormed out of the Atrium. Hermione looked at Luna who had just returned to the dancefloor, a guilty Neville in tow.

"Is that true, Luna?" Hannah Abbot asked, hoping the answer would not be yes.

"I-I'm sorry." Luna hung her head. Hannah burst into raucous sobs.

"How could you do that, Luna? How is anyone supposed to trust you with their own issues if you are creating messes of your own?" Hermione demanded.

"Look-I helped you and Draco figure out what you wanted, but I can't just make it happen for you two."

"That's not what this is about," Hermione spluttered. "This is about you betraying the trust of everyone who cared for you!"

"Actually, Hermione, that is what this is about. Anyone can see-"

"Yes, yes, Looney. All the Nargles in the world can see that you are crazy," Draco drawled.

Kingsley, noticing the increasingly awkward situation, motioned to Harry to make a toast.

Harry nodded, casting a _Sonorous,_ began speaking, "Welcome to the Fifth annual Victory Day Ball! Five years ago, the Order of the Pheonix-"

"There is no way I am going to stand around and listen to St. Potty give a sermon," Draco growled, rolling his eyes and exiting the Atrium.

Hermione watched him go, as she let Oliver lead her back to her seat.

Two days after the ball, Draco's head still ached. This, his excuse to sit at home nursing a bottle of butterbeer instead of reporting to work. He lounged on a chaise on his balcony overlooking central London. His shirt was creased and soft in the collar from two days of constant wear-his hair was a heap of a mess, and his five o'clock shadow had become a small beard. In the distance, Big Ben rang loudly. Draco, muttering, retreated inside, closing the glass door to the balcony with spite.

"Sigmund," Draco sighed, all anger dissipating from him, watching his owl gnaw on the bars of his ornate cage in the corner of the living room, "why did I ever rename you? You were good as Hyperion, and Hyperion you shall be."

Hyperion hooted haughtily, clicking his beak and turning to face the wall.

Draco drained his butterbeer and hovered by the icebox in the kitchen, contemplating grabbing another drink. He watched the light bounce off the bottles and sighed, shutting the door and retreating to the living room dully.

"What does one do when one has no Frizzy, shrill woman to boss him like a house elf?" Draco muttered, and then leaned back his head with the intent of going back to sleep. He turned an eye towards the clock on his wall. 10:00.

10:00. And the clock was correct in Blaise Zabini's cubicle, as always. Which meant Draco was late. Draco was never late; he prided himself on his refined manners, which included punctuality.

Blaise was not the only one to notice Draco's absence. Hermione continually glanced from her office waiting for blond hair and a smirk. _Maybe he submitted his two weeks' notice to Kingsley. And maybe it's for the best._ Her watering eyes betrayed her mind. She wiped her tears as she heard a knock on the door.

"Hermione, can I come in?" Ernie asked from the doorway. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to collect herself.

"Can it wait?"

"Excuse me, I have something to say. You've been putting me off for far too long, and this bears hearing."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she sat back in her chair, unsure of what to do. When Ernie stepped into the office, she nodded hesitantly, and waited as he seemed to work up the courage to speak, standing in front of her desk.

"Hermione," he began, and then spoke rapidly, "what happened at the ball is nothing you should be embarrassed about. It may not have been ideal to have your personal relationship with Malfoy discussed in front of the entire Ministry of Magic, but you should know that it did not come as a shock to any of us. Anybody who has seen you and Malfoy interacting can see how you feel about one another. It didn't matter if you were arguing or collaborating, the intensity was always there. The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The last thing Malfoy feels towards you is indifference. Do you ever notice how he confronts you for every little thing? Take his never-ending battle with the stapler. He could have just used a sticking charm-but instead, he had to bug you about it day after day. Malfoy may never find a middle ground between what he thinks and what he does. But what he wants is obvious, so if it is want you want, too, nothing should stop you from admitting it. As much as it pains me to side with him on this, he has been much more clear about how he feels than you have been. Meet him halfway, Hermione."

Taking in a huge breath, Ernie nodded and left the office without another word.

Hermione, stunned, was silent. She shook her head.

"Blaise, will you bring that paperwork over?" she asked. Blaise stood and shuffled the work spread across his desk. "We have a lot of work to do."

As the workday ended, Hermione gathered her things and closed the office alone. The others had gone early, at her request. She walked to the lift, and hesitated, balancing on the balls of her feet, and then opened the doors. She pushed the button to the lobby, and closed her eyes as the lift descended.

When she opened her eyes, she thought a moment about how she'd gotten to where she was standing. Looking up at a large white edifice, made of-stone, she thought-Hermione glanced over the rows of individual buzzers. She ran her eyes down the list of names, and finding the one she needed, she took a deep breath and raised her finger to the button. She closed her eyes. It had been how long, on the tube? She retraced her steps from the Ministry to this door. It hadn't taken long-but then, yes, it had.

Opening her eyes, Hermione saw her finger lingering on the button next to the name _Draco Malfoy_. She looked up at the building, wondered which balcony was his.

**the end.**


End file.
